The Fantastic Book of Everybody's Secrets by Sophie Hannah

something happened?’
    â€˜Not yet,’ said Selena viciously. ‘But it will.’
    â€˜What? What will happen?’
    â€˜Do you remember that…oh, no. There are some people coming in. No, they’re not. Yes, they are. I’m going to have to take them round the show home. Just meet me here as soon as you can.’
    Tom put the phone down. He turned on his computer and began to draft an email to Nora. What would Selena write? What would Idris write?
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Dear Nora, I was not unwell last Thursday. I was at home with an awful lot of work that I was anxious to get through. It seemed sensible to ask Ruth to put the files I needed in the post, as Ruth was already in the office, right next to the post room, in fact. Surely you would agree that for me to drive forty-five minutes each way to collect the files myself would have been an unwise use of my time and therefore the company’s time and money. It would also have been ecologically irresponsible. Think of the car exhaust fumes and unnecessary petrol consumption.
    Selena or Idris would then almost definitely add, ‘I infer, from your cc-ing of Gillian Bate, that you intended your letter as acriticism at best or, at worst, a threat. If you have any reservations about the way I work, please could I ask you to be more direct in future?’
    Tom smiled. If only. Then he deleted everything he had typed apart from ‘ From: [email protected], To: Nora. [email protected] ’. He kept the ‘Compose message’ box open, but reduced it to a small square in the corner of his screen so that he could also read his new emails. As soon as he looked at his in-box, he spotted the words ‘Staff circular – Idris Sutherland’. He opened this message immediately, half expecting it to be from Gilbert Sparling, the managing director of Phelps Corcoran Cummings, and to say, ‘Have all colleagues noticed that Idris Sutherland is much more straightforward, and as a result happier, than Tom Foyers?’ But no, the email was from Ruth, informing all colleagues that Idris was to take six months of unpaid leave, starting next Monday, in order to spend some time with his new baby, Oliver.
    Tom shook internally. He was not the sort to shake externally . Six months’ leave! It was unheard of. Had Nora agreed to this? No, it couldn’t have happened so quickly. Gillian must have set it in motion before she was promoted. Right, that’s it , thought Tom. He often thought this, and nothing ever happened as a result. Several things were immediately apparent to him: Idris was the sort of person who asked for what he wanted, straight out. Therefore, Idris got what he wanted more often than not. Tom would never have dared to ask for six months’ unpaid leave, even if he could have managed financially, which he couldn’t. If he dared to ask, Gillian or Nora or whichever revolving-wheel-ornament was in charge at the time would say no, without even having to consider it. Tom thought so, anyway. He was pretty sure.
    Inwardly, he vibrated at the injustice. He was in a trap and could see no way out. He’d worked for the company for seven years and had never had either a promotion or a payrise, apart from the minimal, token one that all employees got every year. He knew he ought to try, as Idris had, to improve his situation at Phelps Corcoran Cummings, but once he had tried and failed, what would he have then? Nothing. In realising this, Tom came closer than ever before to identifying the cause of his problem. For as long as he kept his wishes, his fat stack of grievances and his hatred a secret, he still had some power, power he told himself he might one day choose to exercise, even though, deep down, he knew he never would. But the power was there all the same; the sheer force of his illwill towards the company that employed him was awe-inspiring. As long as